Standing Up Again
by Yatzuaka
Summary: A story about Katie Bell, and how she met Marcus Flint, after all these years at a hospital.
1. How It All Began

**Disclaimer: Don't own a single piece of the HP universe. Sadly.**

 **How It All Began**

When Kathryn Ann Bell was little, she often dreamed of war. The Great War, WW2, the time when the Third Reich threatened the world, whatever other names it was known by, Katie dreamed of it. This was an odd preoccupation for a young girl, but of course, to know Katie Bell between the ages of 2 and 8 was to know her stern grandfather and her French grandmother. These two were mostly responsible for Katie in her childhood years, and once upon a time they had been heroes.

Katie's favorite bedtime stories weren't fairytales. She felt no particular attachment to Cinderella, Snow White or Sleeping Beauty, except perhaps a faint pity and a general sense of dislike that these characters had so little character themselves, that they did little more than wait for their prince to rescue them. She had no idea how old she was when she first decided that she'd be as little like those useless ninnies as possible, but it shaped her whole childhood.

She much preferred the stories from her grandparents youth; her Grandpa had joined the RAF at 15, far too young, mind you, and utterly useless the first few months. But Roland Bell had a quick mind, a fantastic sense of muscle memory and he flew against the Germans a few short months after joining. He was crew for a the first ten missions, but his tenacity and reflexes had him in a cockpit flying actual planes within a year and a half. That it could have been lack of other substitutes was never mentioned.

Earned or no, Roland's youth afforded him benefits older pilots simply didn't have- his vision was clearer, his reaction time faster, his sense of mortality virtually nil. It wasn't long before the combination of luck and recklessness that was his calling card had him flying deep into enemy territory unescorted, doing recon and stirring up trouble.

Little Katie Bell sat on her Grandfathers lap, enraptured by his descriptions of the speed he attained and the views he saw, the sense of odd peace that was interspersed with terror. His voice rumbled a deep bass, soothing her and rendering the parts that should have frightened her nothing more than a bedtime story.

Her Mémère, Grandmother, and her Grandfather had met in France after he had crashed in a forest. He had grown careless and cocky- two traits her Grandfather warned her most severely were not appropriate in soldiers. Take a lesson from his example, he always reminded her, smiling grimly as he tapped the fearsome scar that raked down the side of his face.

Mémère had the merest connection to the Resistance at the time she'd found the man who would become her husband; she left food in a dry culvert that had for centuries been a pagan shrine of sorts. Women would leave gifts in exchange for fertility, for strength to carry their babies to term, for the sort strength a woman would need to survive in tough times.

It was a badly kept secret that the most daring girls of their region would appropriate any of those gifts for the Resistance, whatever they might be, for the fight against the Germans. Katie would imagine the furtive trips to drop off food and supplies her Grandmother had taken into the ancient forest and felt the stirring in her blood. Given the choice, Katie thought she would have done that, and more.

Walking back from leaving a skimpy sack of dried and withered carrots, Mémère had heard the telltale sounds of an aerial battle, and the distinctive boom of a plane being shot down.

Mémère took cover for a long time, only coming out when the agonized screams of an airman stuck in the trees had drawn her forth. She couldn't speak English, but she knew that the words the lone figure stuck in some sort of cloth and rope contraption- a parachute- weren't German. She, like all girls of their Region, could climb trees easily, and before she had a chance to question her actions, she'd climbed the tree the man had tangled in.

It had been a few years since Marguerite Villiere had actually had any practical experience climbing a tree, but she managed quite well after kicking off her shoes. It took the sacrifice of her new blouse and her parts of her modesty, but she had torn a strip of fabric from the bottom to secure her knife to dangle from her wrist. Unfortunately she hadn't counted on gravity when she sawed through the ropes that tangled the man to the tall chestnut trees.

He had crashed to the forest floor with a scream followed by a thump and quiet.

Grandfather and Mémère both laughed when they came to this part of the story, but even Katie knew it must have been a frightening experience for both.

Mémère was a country girl, and dropped quickly to the forest floor, making the decision that eventually led to Katie. She bandaged what wounds she could and fashioned a frame out of tree branches which she used to pull the wounded man, slowly, very, very slowly out of the forest. It left thick ruts in the ground, and looking back, she could see a clear path that led straight to her and her self-appointed charge. Marguerite was sure she had never been so tired, but neither could she lead their enemies to her family.

After checking that the mystery man still breathed and that he had a pulse, she made her way back to the area she had found him as quickly as she could. Using sticks, leaves and handfuls of brambles that scraped her hands, she did her best to obscure the path they had created on the way out. Satisfied that her efforts would suffice for the time being, she rested next to the still unconscious man who had dropped from the sky.

Much to her surprise he woke her near dawn the next day, gabbling incomprehensively at her in what she assumed was English. He pointed in the direction of a German base, and actually tried to walk that way before his legs failed him. Through hand gestures and miming, she finally managed to convince the young man to allow her to drag him through the fields that lay fallow and waiting for her people to return to their customary industriousness.

Planes flew over head now and then, as they made that slow, slow trek back to the farm house that had been in her family for generations. She dived for cover, dragging the burden of the enticing stranger with her, getting scratched to shreds by raspberry and blackberry bushes and whatever else they could use for cover.

It was dark by the time they crept into the courtyard of her farm. Her mother had been horrified, but her father, who had set aside those provisions she dutifully delivered to the Lady of the Forest, had taken the presence of the stranger in stride. Marguerite never told little Katie how her mother, Katie's Great-Grandmother, had campaigned to sell the stranger to the Nazis, nor exactly how many times she had been certain that they were caught. The terror.

Thus, when the War with the Death-eaters had once again caught flame, and the danger to Hogwarts become clear, of course Katie hadn't hesitated. She'd joined Dumbledore's Army, she'd done what she could to resist the Regime that emerged to take power over the Wizarding World. It was in her blood to resist. Her muggle blood.

She had never remembered the instance it all changed for her. She imagined it more than once, Madam Rosmerta in the grip of a powerful Imperious handing over a cursed necklace; taking it, not knowing that danger was so very near. Ironic, that a glove should fail her. That the one item of clothing she never went without anymore, would have brought about her downfall.

A small tear in her glove, an annoyance she had ignored as she did what she could to stop the forces that sought to exterminate her way of life.

Katie considered herself lucky that she didn't remember the exact circumstances that had led to her downfall. There was nothing in her memory past the point of her walking to Hogsmeade.

She spent months in the hospital, locked in, unable to communicate beyond the occasional blink, wasting away, seeing her dreams of quidditch and flying against enemies in combat like her Grandfather had done die a slow death.

Mémère and Grandfather, stubborn to the last, visited her shamelessly, often and openly. They had no magic, but they refused to leave her alone. She had begged them to. Had waved the blackened claw her left hand had become to try to scare them. They never wavered, though Mémère had given her a pair of opera length silk gloves.

They were murdered two weeks before the last battle at Hogwarts.

Katie had long since been released by that point, she was back at school, and she was trying to pretend that nothing had ever happened. Death-eater attacks had increased in frequency, the lists of casualties always containing someone who mattered, but Katie had never imagined... They had nothing to do with the war, save that they had raised her, a Half-blood with abilities they couldn't hope to understand, but accepted nonetheless.

Her heart broke when she got the news. Grandfather and Mémère slaughtered in their homes, left like so much rubbish. And for who, for what?

Even after the necklace her resistance to Voldemort and his ilk had been sort of a duty and sort of a lark- as if she was having her own war adventures like her Grandparents. But, after that, their passing, it was intensely personal.

Katie would die before she let Voldemort win, because fuck him.

Mémère wouldn't have approved of the language, and Katie had never really become one of those people who used profanity. But it also reminded her of her Grandfather, who would slip sometimes and say things like, "We sent those Gerry fucks running for the hills, we did," after which he would scan the room guiltily to make sure Mémère hadn't heard. Katie would giggle and he'd ruffle her hair and remind her not to use those words, and never, ever around Mémère.

It became her mantra. She could imagine her Grandfather saying something like we sent those black-cloaked fucks scrurrying like rats, we did. So she started thinking in those terms, black-cloaked fucks, fuck them, we'll send them straight to hell. Fuck Voldemort. Fuck them all until they died horrible, awful deaths.

When the final battle finally arrived to the school, she found herself unable temper her reaction. Katie Bell had been raised by what was essentially a military family, and she had learned the lessons of historical battles while she was practically still in diapers.

She rallied what she came to think of her troops against the black-cloakedfucks that streamed through her school. How dare they? Her grandparents stories guided her, led her to ambush, to pin the enemy against a wall so she could land a final killing blow. She felt no remorse as bodies fell to the rain of violence that dripped from her wand.

When it was over, she realized most of her troops, those mere children she had convinced to fight rather than cower in toilet stalls, were dead or gravely wounded.

When it was over, Katie retreated to her Grandparents house. It had been cleaned and the damage repaired, like nothing bad had ever happened. She hated it.

Katie would have stayed there, content to wallow in guilt and memories and choices she made that she couldn't undo. Except people kept interfering; George Weasley, Alicia Spinnet, Oliver Wood. She tried out for quidditch teams, but she just wasn't good enough. She could have played, had been offered positions in both major and minor teams, but it was sentiment that would have afforded her the opportunity, not skill. Katie couldn't stand that.

In the end, she left England with no fanfare. She slipped out in the postwar confusion, a little ashamed that she was leaving her friends in the lurch, but knowing she couldn't help them in her current state.

Katie spent years wading through the muggle world, eventually going to school and finding herself doing well enough that she kept going. She ended up as a proper doctor, after what seemed like a lifetime of backbreaking work and sacrifice, though how she managed the process remained something of a mystery. Perhaps it had been a tribute to Mémère, or maybe those still children. She never looked to closely at it, she didn't have time to. There were shifts in hospitals that lasted days, and calculations for medications she knew were inefficient and practically useless compared to the magic she could wield. But she never did pick up her wand.

Her Mum, absent for most of childhood, till it became convenient enough for Katie to rejoin her parents at age 8, became ill and the increasing demands that Katie come home wore her down. She bought a little flat in London, refusing to be bullied into moving in with her parents. They would have her company as often as they'd like until her Mum got better, but she needed to be able to go home, after, and home had to be someplace not in their immediate vicinity. She told herself it wasn't spite.

The visits to the hospital were hard, St Mungo's had changed, but not enough and she will always be reminded of her time there. It had been distinctly unpleasant, to say the least.

Still out of duty, loyalty and obligation, Katie held her Mum's hand as the healers did their best to make her better, leaving for a coffee when her mother inevitably passed out from the potions for a few hours. And that was how she came to be in the badly lit cafeteria at St. Mungo's on an early Tuesday afternoon, a time most adults would have been working or doing something productive. Instead, she was in this awful place buying truly wretched coffee, and contemplating if the reward of something sweet in the form of a stale scone outweighed the risk that it would probably be terrible.

Sometimes the baked goods here were tolerable, nearly good, and sometimes they just weren't worth it.

"Katie Bell?"

She turned, annoyed at being recognized, just wanting peace to buy her hot beverage containing caffeine, and contemplate the merits of eating a likely disgusting scone. She recognizes the uniform, Falmouth Falcons, before she looks up and into the face of the man who had spoken. Katie feels a niggle of recognition, something about the dark hair and green eyes is familiar, the obviously huge body under the blue and white of his quidditch kit reminds her of...

"Marcus Flint?"

Disbelief and annoyance bled through her voice, and the big man seemed vastly amused by this, if the smile stretching across his face is anything to go by. He grabbed a pumpkin tart from the case behind her, his whole body coming far too close to her, and she resisted the twin urges to shove past him and knee him in the groin.

"So, what are you doing here, anyway, Bell? I heard you were in the Colonies or somewhere equally inferior."

He moves them along, towards the register, glancing at sandwiches and trays of food that should have been thrown out hours ago, by the look of it. She abandoned the scone, too tense for even the thought of food at the appearance of this old school chum. She doesn't owe him an answer; she has never liked him, and he was never nice to her. But her mouth moves anyway.

"Well, Mum got sick. You?"

Her voice sounds wrong; too bright, her register too high. The smile is forced, plastered on like cheap paint that will bubble out from the wall with the first whiff of moisture.

He looks at her oddly, as if he's seen something unexpected and isn't quite sure how to sort it out.

"You OK, there, Bell?"

Is that concern in his voice?

She notices her hands shaking as she holds the money out to the lady at the till, but Marcus just pushes her arm down and gestures that he'll pay for hers and his. The lady adds his cup of whatever and the tart to the total and Marcus hands over the money.

Katie stood there as if she wasn't sure what to do, and is resentful when he guides her to a faraway table in a dim corner by her elbow. Why had she let him? She's not sure of anything anymore, just that her hands are shaking and she can't make it stop. Breathing becomes an issue. Everything is really an issue; light is too bright, the world too big. The paradox she's faced with is that there is too much to take and too little in reserve to face it.

Katie vibrates and though coffee would be really great right now, she knows two things: that she'd just end up wearing it instead of ingesting it and that it would only be coffee if the qualifications for a real cup of coffee lowered to include diluted tar.

Clinically, distantly, she tallies the symptoms in her head, searching through her hard-won library of knowledge, and she knows.

"Panic attack," she whispers, mostly to herself, ignoring whatever it was the hulk sitting across from her had been saying.

It brings her back to herself, though it's hardly comforting that it is not her body failing her, but her mind.

"Are you alright? Do you need me to get someone? Bell?"

Yes, that is, in fact, concern in his voice, Katie decides. It was nearly... her vocabulary fails her momentarily. Sweet, she finally settles on. Who would have thought? Foul-mouthed Marcus "Bloody" Flint sweet.

She feels the corners of her mouth curl up involuntarily, and shakes her head, slowly. "No. God, no."

Marcus looks around, focuses back on her, "What's wrong, Katie?"

She blinks to clear her eyes, "Oh, just. Everything, really."

Katie laughs, but it's mirthless, hopeless, "I left a lucrative career I worked myself to the bone for, one that I still owe an an enormous debt on, I sold my house at a loss, I bought a flat I hate in a city I've never liked, my Mum is dying and I don't know what to do anymore."

Her breath hitches and it takes her a moment to place that the soft tapping sound that had started up was her tears falling against the table.

If she has ever been so mortified in her life, she couldn't remember it. She put her head against the table and wraps her arms around it, sobbing noiselessly. Too many things all at once, and she has just broken. She doesn't know how long it takes her to contain the eruption of feelings, but she comes back to herself, heaving for breath and held gently against a near stranger. OK, she found a moment more mortifying than the one a few minutes ago. Great.

She disentangled herself, moving away from Flint, who let her go without protest.

"Let's go," he said, to Katie's complete surprise. And relief, if she was honest.

"Where?" she asked. The prospect of escape sweet, if unlikely.

He thought for a moment, his head cocked as he considered possibilities.

"I would have said my place, but I know you'd take that the wrong way. The Leaky Cauldron? You can get easily to muggle-London from there, and I won't even insist on seeing you home. Besides, the walk might do you good," he said, as he handed over a handkerchief.

Marcus looks away as she wipes up, gives her time to straighten herself without further mention of the display she had just put on. Oh, god, she wished the ground would just open up and take her away.

She has responsibilities, weights she has to shoulder and can't escape.

"No. Thank you, Flint. That's very kind, and you have been, too. Kind, I mean. But I have to get back to my mother and see her home after her treatments."

Marcus nodded, his eyebrows drawn tight as he searched her face.

She keeps it as neutral is she can, though she can only guess at what she looks like. A mess, to be sure.

"Alright then. It was g-, er. I'll see you around, Bell."

* * *

It's still strange to be back in England. Some days she's sure she hates it, and other days it's not so bad. She's found work at a GP's office in her new neighborhood. She likes it better than working in another hospital, though she sometimes misses the rush she got from surgery. She adapts, and the depression she had diagnosed herself with subsides somewhat with therapy that embarrasses her, though she knows it shouldn't, and pills she isn't so sure she should be taking. It seems to be enough for her to enjoy the odd day or two.

Walking her new dog, Katie was pleased that she hadn't just dropped the thing off to the pound when she'd found her shivering next to a rubbish bin, even though she carried a bag of enormous dog shits. There seemed to be a distinct shortage of receptacles she could discard the crappy burden in, and she was just about to give up and walk home clutching the foulness when she spotted one.

She looked down to smile at Gwynog the Mutt, and when the dog wags her tail in response, something melts inside Katie. She jogs over to the rubbish bin, her attention split in too many different directions, and she runs right into someone. They each grab the other, trying not to fall, and when Katie dares to look up, she was shocked to find Marcus Flint, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

"Breaking my nose twice wasn't enough, Katie?"

"Was breaking my clavicle, bruising my coccyx and giving me three black eyes enough for you, Flint?"

"You just wanted an excuse to say cock in my presence. Admit it, Katie," and perhaps she had.

"Hardly. You're a pig, Flint."

"A funny one at least," he snorted, before he said in an exaggerated baby voice, "And who is this pretty lady here?"

His fingers moved lovingly over her dog's skull, as he continued to murmur nonsense and sweet nothings at Gwynog.

The traitor repaid Katie's kindness by falling in love with what for all intents and purposes her mortal enemy.

"You realize I truly hate you right now?"

If she believed Marcus Flint was capable of humor, she might have described the noise he made as a chuckle.

"Come on, you look as if you could use a drink," he grabbed her hand and pulled her over to a cafe where the staff seemed to know, and even more odd, like him.

He arranged a bowl of water for Gwynog and a pint of shandy for her. Yes, she had spent almost her whole time in Hogwarts hating the boy this man became, but perhaps he was different.

Katie couldn't help the smile she gave him.


	2. I want, I need, I have, I am

**Chapter 2: I want, I need, I have, I am**

 **Summary:**

Katie and Marcus have bonding time.

That's a euphemism for sex, in case you're wondering. Please go elsewhere if that doesn't interest you.

 _Notes:_

 _I challenged myself to another chapter of this, at least 4000 words, 48 hours._

 _For those of you waiting on WL, it's on the way. Soon._

* * *

Katie and Gwynog had a routine now. They had a routine and they were a team, and it helped. They walked to the park in the morning, with Katie allowing Gwynog to sniff and do her business as she pleased. Once they got to the park, though, all bets were off, and they started running. This was no sedate jogging, this was flying along the paths, Katie's heart a fast beat in her chest and Gwynog's tongue flapping. It was sweat and pounding feet and heaving for breath before long. It was liberating.

With the job, Katie wasn't able to accompany her mother to St Mungo's in the early afternoon anymore, but she still stopped by for tea in the evening. She liked to think that she was growing accustomed to the company of her parents, but that was not entirely true. The talk between them was strained and awkward, and most of the time, she breathed a sigh of relief when she finally left their house.

It had been made utterly clear that a mutt like Gwynog was unwelcome at her parents house.

Katie often sat on the floor in her hallway afterwards, being lavished with love from her dog, wondering how much more of her life they expected her to give, when they were so unwilling to compromise and insisted on being so very unpleasant. Sometimes those thoughts were accompanied by a wondering, a question: How Memere and Grandfather could have birthed her mother, a being so devoid of joy she sucked it out of any room, when they had been so delightful and full of love.

On weekends, she refused to join them, outright dismissed any requests for her company. Guilt had bought them weekdays, but that bitter currency could not buy her Saturdays or Sundays.

Those were days when she'd sleep in, and only venture out around lunch time- not for running, but for wandering. More often then not, she'd end up at the little pub Marcus had brought her to, and sit outside with a book and a pint, or several of each, depending on her mood.

Sometimes, on the weekends Flint wasn't playing, he found them there after their wanderings. She still wasn't entirely sure why he bothered, or why it bothered her so much that he did. Katie wasn't ever rude to him, just wary. He upset the delicate balance of her life, and she couldn't work out if that was a good thing.

On this Saturday, he was more disheveled than she'd ever seen him; his hair wet and unkempt looking, stubble thick on his jaw, as if he'd thrown on some random clothes after a quick shower and headed there posthaste.

Katie watched him shovel chips and gravy into his mouth, embarrassed to be caught staring when he finally looked up from his plate. He smiled, revealing those startlingly straight, white teeth of his, and fed a gravy-soaked chip to Gwynog.

"Got them fixed after I took a bludger to the face my first year playing for the Falcons," he said and tapped his incisor.

"Oh?" Katie responded, dumbly, in the face of a smile he shouldn't have been allowed to possess. She was an adult, almost 35 years old, she could manage small talk with someone of the opposite sex.

"How long have you been playing for them?" That sounded like something appropriate.

"I was signed right after Hogwarts, so, oof, almost 17 years now. Ever think we're getting old, Katie?"

Gwynog whined, and Katie looked down to see big eyes and a pleading face. She scratched the beggar behind the ears before she answered, "Old? I suppose it depends. I imagine guys like you would think someone like me is old, but I don't consider myself old." Occasionally, something of her time in the US slipped out, and in this case, it made her ears burn.

"'Guys like me', eh? What's that supposed to mean?" he said, and leaned forward in his seat, trying to catch her eye. "Have I just been insulted, Gwynog?" he asked her dog, who perked up and waggled her whole body in response. Traitor.

"Flint, I just meant, I dunno, you're an athlete," which just sounded stupid. She tried again, "Wasn't your last girlfriend actually 20?" which was somehow just about the most embarrassing thing she could have said, as it implied that she had checked up on him.

His green eyes twinkled, "Imogen was 23, but we never really dated, per se, we just-," his voice trailed off, and Katie felt like a fool- an old, wrinkled, past her prime fool, "We just... Her brother set us up. We went to that premiere. It was hideous, Katie. She didn't even know who the Weird Sister's were. I felt like her uncle, or some disapproving elderly relative. I kept trying to get her to take my jacket, to cover her up. She was a favor, Katie, nothing more. Besides, that was months ago, before we even... Have you been checking up me?"

"What? Of course not. I just remembered something from the queue at the shop, you know, the rags they keep there. I didn't mean to imply-," she said, voice trailing away as she frantically tried to dig herself out of the hole she'd dug. Her face felt hot, and she knew she was blushing.

"I mean it's not the worst thing if you had. I don't mind, in fact, I sort of did the same," he sort of mumbled that last bit.

"Oh?"

"I saw Oliver at the game last week. He didn't even know you were back," his voice was entirely mild, as if he'd made a comment about the weather.

"Yeah, it's been, or rather, I've been - busy."

It was a weak excuse, except she could barely face herself these days, much less old, badgering, well-meaning friends.

He slid his hand over hers, where it sat picking restlessly at the bubbles in the painted metal. She looked up, shocked.

"I've really got to get going," she said, panicking suddenly. Katie threw some money from her pocket onto the table, grabbed Gwynog's leash and took off down the street. She was in better shape than she'd been in years, and she took advantage of it, weaving quickly through the throngs of people.

She was out of breath when she stumbled up the stairs and opened the door to her flat. Once they were inside, the door securely locked at her back, Gwynog looked at her with her head cocked, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Then she shook her head and padded into the kitchen. A few seconds later Katie heard the slurping sounds of Gwynog enjoying an after-run, thirst quenching bowl of water, something Katie could do with herself, only in a glass.

Katie had just toed off her shoes and was hanging Gwynog's leash on its doggy shaped hook when someone buzzed her flat. She'd gotten used to her neighbour ringing to be let in, having forgotten her keys, so used to it that she didn't even think twice before she'd pressed the unlock button. She walked into her living room, and found the remote on the couch. The music that soothed the rough edges from a bad day flowed through the speakers.

The knocking at her door took her aback. Softly, she made her way back to the door and peaked out the peephole. Flint.

She opened the door a crack, "How did you know where I live?"

He dangled her bag in front of him, "It wasn't hard when I had your address. Here," he said, and held the bag towards her.

"I'm sorry, you must think me unspeakably rude, but..." She said as she took the bag.

"No need to explain, Bell. I'll just be going now," and he turned to leave.

"No, Flint, come in, the least I could do is... offer tea?"

She closed the door behind him, struck by his sheer size, how small he made her feel.

Gwynog wedged herself between them, nosing his hand and whining, and Katie remembered to move. She shuffled into the living room, awkwardly pulling her recalcitrant dog along.

Marcus looked surprised when he stepped in behind her, and she could sort of understand. "I didn't realize," he said, glancing around at her decidedly muggle flat.

"It's fine, you can say it. I know I live like a muggle."

"But don't you miss, er, magic?"

"Sometimes, but, it's complicated. How does wine sound instead of tea? If you really want to know, alcohol will make it easier. For me, anyway."

When he nodded gratefully, she made her way to her kitchen. After gulping down a huge glass of water, she gathered her nice glasses from the back of the cupboard and gave them a quick wash. The wine she had chilled was a cheap Pinot Grigio, but it would have to do. It seemed like it might be a little too early to break out the whiskey but she brought that bottle along, too.

Flint was running a hand across Gwynog's back, when she returned, murmuring under his breath as the dog squirmed and squinted happily. He was a nice man, she decided, and undeserving of her panicked flight. He just didn't seem the sort to deliberately hurt her.

He heard her coming and looked up at her. His face wasn't exactly handsome, he'd broken his nose once too often for that, and he had a scar that bisected his eyebrow, probably his sub-orbital bone, too. She almost got carried away with herself, trying to diagnose possible previous injuries.

Setting down the bottles and glasses and arranging things just so, gave her something to do, something to distract herself from the way he looked at her.

His voice was velvet soft when he said, "Why don't you just explain what all this is? I've always suspected that muggle studies was full of shite."

They spent a while on that, with her allowing him to push buttons and swipe the screen of her cell phone. His curiosity was endearing. In the end, he was laughing at her as she demonstrated the Hoover, dancing around with her ear buds in as she swept the machine across the floors.

Katie fell onto the sofa next to him, flushed and slightly drunk, and pulled the earphones out. He was smiling broadly, and reached for the bottle of wine on the table. It was almost empty, and he poured the last few drops into her glass with a flourish.

She giggled, actually giggled, something she didn't remember doing in years. "You know, Flint, I don't think I've had this much fun in years."

"Marcus," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Marcus, you should call me Marcus. We're not just old school chums, are we? So, Marcus."

"Alright, Marcus," the name felt funny in her mouth, "are you hungry?"

"I'm a professional quidditch player, Katie, I'm pretty much always hungry. Are you offering to cook for me?"

She snorted, "No. I'm offering to order a pizza, if that sounds acceptable?"

"Order a pizza?"

"For science, or whatever. To show you that muggles are quite brilliant for all their limitations."

"Alright, that sounds interesting, if nothing else."

Katie picked up her cell phone, while Marcus watched carefully, and scrolled through her contacts until she reached the right one. She placed the order, for two large, after looking at her guest, and settled back to wait.

"It'll be here in about an hour. It usually takes less time, but they are busy tonight," she said.

"What can we do for an hour? I wonder," Marcus said, eyes hooded and predatory.

"But, you said we're friends," Katie murmured, because she might not have been the most experienced at this, but even she could recognize the look in his face.

A laugh rumbled in his chest, and a sly smile stole across his lips, "No. I said we're not just school chums anymore. Besides, being friends doesn't necessarily mean that we can't..."

He leaned forward, towards her, and she leaned back, away from him.

"Is this why you keep coming around?" she asked, when he was in her space, his face almost touching hers.

"If you're asking if I fancy you, the answer is yes, but if you're asking if I just want a shag, the answer is no."

He sounded so sincere, so calm and certain, she was charmed despite herself.

"It's just a kiss, Katie."

She forced herself to relax, to allow the moment to happen. And it was nice. His lips were firm and warm, his breath smelled pleasantly of the wine they'd shared, and he didn't try to cage her face with his hands. She relaxed, and his tongue swept the seam of her lips.

Katie couldn't remember the last time she had done this, but she was fairly certain that it hadn't felt like this, soft and sweet and mellow. He wrapped an arm around her, and she pushed away, breathing as hard as she did when she came back from her runs, "Sorry, I just, I don't do this sort of thing. You know, normally."

"Katie," he said, voice a deep, regretful rasp, "We can stop whenever you like." He let his hand trail over her shoulder as he pulled it back, and inched away.

The thing was, she didn't want to stop. Her pounding pulse, the heavy quality of the air, the way he looked at her, all of it made her feel. Made her feel alive. She leaned over, captured his lips, and pressed her body against his. He felt warm under his shirt, and she was struck with the urge to touch that warmth with her fingers. He allowed her to take the lead this time, to do what she wanted, so she let herself trace the contours of firm muscle.

He moaned into her mouth, a sound that made her shiver and want. She wanted to get closer, and the only way she saw to do that was to crawl on his lap. A part of her screamed that it was too much, too soon, dangerdangerdanger, but she didn't care to listen to that part of her anymore, and straddled him.

She could feel his muscles twitch under her fingers, and how his chest expanded with every breath, the way his thighs tensed under hers as he tried not to push against her. Katie wanted that, though, she wanted more, greedily, she wanted everything with a voraciousness that startled her.

Katie felt like she was flying again.

The stubble on his face chafed her neck, as he pressed hot kisses there. She moaned, a deep sound in her throat, and suddenly Gwynog was there, growling at the two of them, a canine chaperone.

They pulled apart almost guiltily, and Marcus chuckled thickly. "It's fine, Gwynog, I'm not hurting her."

Gwynog got up on the sofa and pushed her nose between them. Katie slid carefully slid off his lap, huffed a little laugh and patted Gwynog on the head, "Down, girl, no sofa for you. Go lay down, come on. There's a good girl."

"She's a good one," Marcus said softly, after Gwynog had settled sulkily into her doggie bed, and continued staring at them with something like wary vigilance. He tugged Katie close, tucked her neatly against his chest and caressed her arm, softly, slowly up and down.

"She's the best," Katie agreed, strangely content. "I found her behind the rubbish bin down the street, you know. Filthy little thing, all skin and bones. And look at her now, a real lady of the house."

Gwynog shook her head at the both of them, and rolled onto her back.

"Yeah, she's a real lady, that one," he said, drily.

Katie laughed, and looked up him. She met his eye and her smile melted. When had someone last looked at her like that, like she was all that mattered, as if he wanted to swallow her whole. The levity of the moment evaporated as he leaned down to kiss her again.

Soon they were laying across the sofa, with him carefully keeping his weight carefully off of her, even as he looked over her. It was something that she'd never liked, not until right then. She shifted her pelvis carefully, rubbing delicately against the thigh he'd wedged between hers.

"Katie," he said, dropping his face into the crook of her neck, the words a rumbling warmth, and the desperation she heard made her feel like she'd won something precious. It took quite a bit of wriggling and wiggling, but she unbuttoned the top of her jeans and grabbed for the hand that was keeping him upright. He fell heavily to the side, almost pushing her off the sofa. She grabbed his hip and pulled herself flush against him.

"It occurs to me that I never showed you my, uhm, my bedroom," she said, proud that she'd only hesitated slightly.

It was to his credit that he stilled completely, and asked quietly if she was sure. Katie had rarely been so sure of anything, so she rolled off the couch, got to her feet and held her hand out to him. She was acutely aware of how she must've looked, her shirt rucked up, her jeans unbuttoned, her hair sticking out all over the place. She didn't care in the slightest when he got up, put his palm in hers, and let her lead him to the bedroom.

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

He was looking around, at the smaller TV on her dresser, the digital alarm clock on her nightstand, the books scattered around and the pictures on her walls. It was odd, watching him take in her private sanctuary. Marcus looked at her, smiled, "I don't think I've ever seen so many pictures that don't move. Where is this?" he asked, pointing to a small photo of the Grand Canyon at sunrise.

She crossed the room to stand next to him. "The Grand Canyon," she said and gripped his hand.

He pointed to another, one that looked like the Statue of Liberty, "And that one? New York? Played there once or twice."

"No, Vegas."

"Hm, you traveled a lot, then?" He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her.

She shrugged, "Yes, before I started school, at any rate."

He tugged her over to the bed, fingered the hem of her shirt, "Do you mind? It's been driving me crazy all day."

She looked down, saw her nipples poking through the thin layers of her bra and tee, and thought wildly that if she was in for a penny, she was in for a pound. When she nodded, he asked, "What was that like? School, you're a healer, right? Doctor, I guess it's called?" as he pulled her shirt slowly up her torso.

She raised her arms obligingly, and wondered why he was asking about that, off all things. When the shirt was off, he chucked it in the corner, and looked at her breasts, small and hidden behind the thin lycra of the bra.

There was definitely gravel in his voice when he glanced up and caught her eye, "Come on, Katie. Talk to me." His hands on her hips gripped her tight, lifted her up on the bed and stretched out next to her.

"It took a while," she said, wishing that they could get back to the kissing.

"Really, that's it?" He asked and stroked a callused finger across her clavicle and down her chest, between her breasts. He stopped at her belly button, made her squirm at the unfamiliar contact.

"Really. We can talk about that later. Besides... You sort of have me at a disadvantage here."

His finger started to travel up again, "Oh? How's that?"

"I'm more naked."

"Well, I suppose that depends on what you're basing that calculation on," he ran the very tip of his finger under the top edge of her bra.

Katie almost shuddered, but managed, "I'm basing it on the number of clothes worn. I'm in my bra, you're still wearing a shirt."

"Ah, but if you're basing it on the number of clothes worn, then I'm still wearing less than you," he said, grinning hugely, before he bent to nuzzle her stomach. It tickled.

"How do you figure that?" she laughed, as he licked the same path as his fingers had just taken.

He tongued her neck, until he got to her ear, "Four pieces of clothing on me, five on you."

She sat up quickly, once she'd figured out what his words meant, and took off her socks. Katie turned a smug smile his way, "Your turn."

Katie had a fair idea what she'd find under his shirt, but the reality was somewhat different. His body wasn't in shape because he went to the gym a few times a week; it was hardened like that because he used it everyday, had turned it into the instrument of his profession. She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, feeling how it got shorter in some spots, almost sparse, like it had been chafed away. From his uniform, possibly.

His shoulders were thick with muscle and the tendons in his neck stood out from the skin. She kissed him and ran her hands down his back, fingers lingering in the dip of his spine.

When she pulled away and was breathing hard, he shifted his feet a few times, and she had a sneaking suspicion. She looked down, and his feet were bare.

"Rules are rules. I'm down to one. A single, lonely article of clothing," he said and waggled his eyebrows at her, when she looked back at his face.

Now was not the time for panic, not when a very fit, very handsome man was just shy of being naked on her bed, a man she was going slowly mad for.

Katie reached back, unhooked the bra, let it fall to the floor, and while her nerve was high, because he was looking at her like she was beautiful, shucked her jeans and panties at the same time.

She froze for a second, twisted oddly on the bed and feeling more exposed than she had in forever. She straightened, sitting completely naked on her bed, legs pressed together and cocked to the side. He was looking at her face, an expression of desire so clearly etched on his own, that she croaked, "Your turn, again."

He didn't break eye contact, but she couldn't help herself when he shifted and fabric rustled. She glanced down, and looked back up, stricken.

"It's ok, love," Marcus said, kissing her softly, gently, "We won't do anything you're not ready for."

When she came up for air, she found that she was laying down, on her side, face to face with Marcus. He opened his eyes and smiled, fingers brushing the skin around her lips, "Sorry, should have shaved, would have if I'd have even guessed..."

She smiled, and Gwynog barked sharply twice. There was a muffled knocking at her door.

"Pizza! Shit! Clothes!" She jumped out of bed, pulled on her jeans and t-shirt, not bothering to zip up, and ran through the living room to the door. Gwynog thumped her tail on the floor, sitting happily on her purse. "Sure now you play guard dog. Be right there!" she said after another knock.

It was always a dance to get deliveries inside when Gwynog wasn't put away in the bedroom. This time was worse because there were two boxes, and they were so big.

But then Gwynog left her alone, and suddenly she wasn't in danger of dropping the pizzas any more. In the living room, Gwynog sat, a model of doggy innocence and watched, with Marcus, shirtless Marcus. Unfairly muscled and gorgeous Marcus.

She set the pizzas down, wondering if it was socially acceptable to ask him to wait on the pizza until after, you know?

"Sex?"

She squeaked. Crap. "I didn't mean to say that out loud."

"Why? I was just thinking the same thing."

Gwynog tried to come into the room with them, but sat right outside, looking disgruntled, when she was told.

This time Marcus slid her jeans off first, left her shirt on, and carried her to the bed. Her legs were sprawled open, knees bent, and he crawled in after her, stopping when she was under him. He grabbed a pillow and slid his finger in a swirling pattern on the side of her butt, "Do you mind? I'm hungry."

"What?"

"Lift," he pressed the pillow where he'd just touched her.

Dubious, she complied. When she was seated on the pillow, her pelvis tilted up and her legs spread, she finally got it.

"Thank you," was all the warning she had before he bent to her. He seemed to pause for a second, and it was just long enough for her to tense up, to wonder what was wrong down there. "Katie," he whispered, and she held her breath, "you're lovely."

He parted her with his tongue, softly tracing her lines, and with each pass, she relaxed. Shooting, darts of pleasure, when he soothed her clit with the flat of his tongue, just as her limbs turned to jelly. She grabbed his hair, to gain some purchase, and he slipped his clever tongue inside. Hips jerking, she groaned softly, then louder when it was replaced with a finger. He suckled her clit gently, and, and...

Katie orgasmed. Loudly, wetly, unashamed at the response of her body.

She was shaking just a little, but she was suddenly aware enough to know what she needed. She wanted more, all of him.

That is, until Marcus said, in a thoughtful tone of voice, "I didn't realize your alarm clock had a fire setting, interesting... Actually it sort of smells." His nose wrinkled and Katie realized what had happened.

She grabbed the cord, which was double insulated, and pulled it out of the wall. The building went dark.

This hadn't happened in so long, she never thought it would happen again. Shit. Slamming the window open, she threw the smoldering alarm clock out and in a wide ark, so it ended up dropping into the street. She slammed the window back into place right as people started yelling below.

Katie put her jeans on and went back to her living room. If she hadn't been in her own flat, she would have run, but he'd leave soon enough, and then she could feel as shitty as she wanted to. Patting the spot on the sofa next to her, Gwynog hopped up, burrowing her head between Katie's thighs and stomach until she wiggled her way onto Katie's lap. Katie held her, and willed her heart to calm, her breath to even out, her mind to sharpen. It was like putting on her armour before going into the ER.

Marcus sat down next to her, back in those jeans, which drooped low across his hips, and Gwynog growled, just a little, just in case. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," she said into her dogs fur.

"Don't you think I, maybe, ought to know what happened? If it was me, something I did, so I won't do it again."

She lifted her face, reminded all over again, why she didn't do this, "In this case, it was me. Involuntary burst of magic."

"What, from coming?" he sounded curious, but not incredulous, a distinction which made her inordinately happy.

Her ears flamed, "I don't usually, uhm, it's not generally that intense."

He looked more than a little smug, "You mean, wait. I made you blow up the eckeletrics in your building?" And she'd never seen a more self-satisfied smile, ever.

She nodded, thankful for the darkness that masked her embarrassment. He swept her and Gwynog into a hug, laughed a little, while she protested that it wasn't funny, and he assured her that it was.

"No fire setting on your alarm clock, then?" he said, as he sat back and stroked a finger down her cheek.

"No, funny man."

"Do you want to do it again, and see what'll happen if I really put my mind to it?"

Katie thought about it, for a second, and nodded shortly. Who knew when she'd have this chance again? She shifted her legs and Gwynog obliged her, for once, and got down.

Marcus slid over, flush against her, and pushed his hands up her shirt. His hands skated up her ribcage, and pulled the shirt along. She raised her arms for the second time, but he only pulled the shirt over her head, left it around her biceps, trapping them in the upright position. His head lowered to her chest and she wanted it, wanted his mouth on her skin again, so much that she cried out at the first touch. He pressed her against the arm rest, her body bowing back to give him as much access as she could.

Katie didn't even care how he did it, but her jeans were gone, and so were his, and he was brushing against her, that wonderful, hard part of him that she'd glimpsed earlier.

Marcus looked at her, and she returned to the real world, an abrupt slap in the face she'd been trying to avoid. He was an international quidditch player, and who knew how many people he'd slept with. She really hated how her mind worked sometimes, she thought as she tilted her hips back, away from the friction he created.

"Condoms?"

He looked confused, "Aren't you on the potion?"

She shook her head, "No, I was on the pill for a while, but there hasn't been anyone," she said, and Katie pushed him away, needing to think.

"Well, we don't really use condoms, you know, there's the potion, or spells, for emergencies. I would have taken some, but shit Katie, it felt presumptuous, like I would have been expecting something from you. It's been more than a few months since, well more like almost a year," he reached for his trousers, and put them on.

Katie felt a little silly and very judgmental, and wiggled back into her t-shirt.

"Want an adventure?" Marcus asked, quietly, fidgeting a little.

Katie looked at him like he'd gone a little crazy, "What sort of adventure?"

"Well, you can't do anything with your building dark. Right? We can go to my place, heat the pizza, eat, maybe use the potion I've got in my cabinet?"

She was crazy, too, because she got up, put on her jeans and said, "Sure."

* * *

 _Notes:_

 _And that's it. For now, anyway._

 _I imagine it's riddled with errors and wonkiness, but I'd still love to hear from you._


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